Hotshot
by PendulumWings
Summary: Jack Francis Barton, twenty one, (chipped tooth, busted face lookin', master thief and hand-to-hand combat specialist) kidnapped by HYDRA with some of his best friends. Feat. Clint Barton's spitting image growing up and learning what life is like without a father.


There's just one good thing that came with being born with Clint Barton's blood.

But there was a whole lot more bad.

I got bad luck in me. It follows me around like a fuckin' puppy on a leash. I can't escape it, can't rationalize it, all my coincidences and bullshit is because I've got it, and I got it bad.

My name is Jack, and my last name is kind of-... not public knowledge. Technically it's Barton, but I don't talk about that to everyone. I only mention it now, because, well. I'm fucking dying.

Jack Francis Barton. When I was young it was Frank. 'Jack' if I was in trouble - I was in trouble a lot, which is why it stuck. Again, bad luck blood.

And as I lay dying, I'm typing it out, 'cuz there are a few things I want my biological dad to know. 'Cuz I'm not really the talking type and neither is he, and I'm kinda pissed off that this is what my life has come to, typing on a dingy fucking keyboard in some backwards half assed lab and waiting for death, hoping Stark'll pick it up and pass it on.

* * *

><p>Clint was absolutely fuming mad. He'd never been so fucking <em>angry<em> before. It was making his hands shake, for Christ sake. Not to mention how hard he was breathing, because Steve was in his ear and screaming for him to stop what he was doing and think clearly - and Stark had, more than once, now, tried to swoop past and snatch him up.

"You'll be put in time out." his voice was Iron Man animated, but it didn't delay the actual concern in his tone. "C'mon, Annie Oakley, quit the vendetta bullshit-"

He tossed the comm in his vague direction. Didn't care if it hit the mark. Didn't care what any one had to say. It wasn't fair. He'd just got his kid, just managed to get some actual time with him, managed to make himself believe that he was able to be - more. Made himself think that maybe he was good for something other than puppeting.

And fucking... HYDRA, happened.

He didn't know how HYDRA knew who Jack was. Just that they did. And they'd taken him.

It was -

Upsetting.

And Natasha, who was pretty buddy buddy with Cap, well, she didn't take his orders. She found Clint, sneaking low through the tunnels of HYDRA with his bow in hand, and she looked at him with one eyebrow up.

He didn't speak because nothing made sense growled through his teeth. But she got the gist, and unholstered her guns, and followed him up to where the beacon was calling his name.

He knew it was stupid, knew that it was just a noise.

But he couldn't help but think it sounded a little bit like:

"Dad, dad, dad."

* * *

><p>I was apparently conceived like most babies. With drunk, accidental fucking.<p>

Ma told me, once:

"We were both carnies, honey. He was much, much younger than me and we were shootin' the shit, me with my knives and him with his bow. We were both - vastly, inebriated - and we were making stupid bets. I sliced one of his arrows in half with a knife... He used a rebound shot to hook the tab for my fingers. And... the 'I bet yous' got... a lil' outta hand."

"Ew, ma."

"Hey, kid, you asked me. I'm just -... I just walked out, soon as I knew you were in my belly and you were healthy. I didn't even say anything, just walked to the next town over and started livin' in motels. Got a little diner job and worked my ass to the bone for you. Carnies are all about the family thing, baby, but a circus ain't no place to start raisin' a kid. Especially since I had it in my head that your daddy was gonna come back and tryn' take you away, or treat you bad, or somethin'."

"Was he that kinda guy?"

"No, no he wasn't. It was just -... He was young, had a real noble bit to him. Real caught up in family life, and I mean, from what he told me - mostly from what I saw - it wasn't any kind of family I wanted you to be a part of, okay? He was always hurtin'. Outside, inside, didn't matter. He was seventeen and covered in old scars and -"

"MA!"

"What?"

"Seventeen-?! That's - fuckin' illegal!"

"'Scuse yourself 'fore I smack that filthy tongue out your mouth."

"Sorry, ma."

"You'd better be. Look, it ain't any more legal than what we're doin' now. That's what you wanted to know, hotshot, so you just shut your mouth and listen. I was on my own, I had a baby that was gonna need me, I didn't know how to live regular life. So I started liftin' things. Just food and clothes, working to get the dollars to pay rent and bills. After you were born expenses only went up, so I started having to steal medicine and cribs."

"How the hell'd you steal a crib?"

"Oh, the crib was easy, just talked some shit about my husband payin' up front and got the guys to put it in the car. The hardest thing I ever stole early on was your rockin' horse. You don't know how hard it is to tryn' lift a fuckin' wooden horse when you're nine months pregnant and ready to burst, goddamnit." I remember her laugh. It was like magic, like it wiped away all her old person lines and made her look half her age. "You were three weeks late to your own birthday, thought I was gonna have to reach in and get you my damn self."

I was almost born half way through a heist - she'd got this urge to go and get stuff, to start nesting, she told me. Got all these blankets and pillows into her car, got the new mattress for my crib, then her water broke and she had to go give birth with a car full of snagged baby things and linen.

* * *

><p>It took Clint a half a minute, literally, to find his kid. Sprawled out, white as a sheet, his sweat tacky. He had dark bruises around his eyes, and his nose -... was definitely broken, again. His hands were resting gently over a keyboard, the screen black, but that wasn't what worried the eldest Barton.<p>

What worried him was that he couldn't see the kid moving, not even to breathe.

"Jack." he said, dropped the bow and ran to him. "Jack!"

* * *

><p>Ma did have rules, though. I was kinda thankful.<p>

"Don't shit where you eat." she told me.

Translated: don't steal from work, around the house, or from school.

"If it ain't gonna be missed, go for your life."

Forgotten baseballs in the bottoms of drains? Mine. Stuff kids left lying in their front yards? Mine. If a kid's got doubles of trading cards, you bet your ass he didn't have 'em when I was through.

"If no one's gonna get hurt, if no one misses out that's got just as little as we do, it's fair game."

And that is something I agree with, mostly. Except for the handful of security guards I had to beat up to shut up every now and then.

I got caught once or twice, but for petty shit. A pencil, once, just so happened that the pencil this kid'd lost was in my pocket when I tripped over and it came out because - fuckin', Barton's blood.

Where with my mother? Stealthy as _balls_.

She was this, soft lookin' lady, sorta round with long brown hair that made her look really sweet, like a teacher, or someone trustworthy. But she was a knife thrower and a good liar and had a mouth like a goddamn sailor.

Me? She told me all the time.

"Those eyes, Jacky, you wouldn't believe it if you saw."

She showed me a picture, a Polaroid, a few hours later. Her eyes were extra shiny but not red - she hadn't been crying from what I could tell, just kinda reminiscing.

In the picture, their faces were lined up, mostly filling the frame. He had one eye shut in a cheeky wink, mouth half cocked in a grin. I remember he looked like he'd been in the wrong end of a fistfight, bruised on the face with a swollen nose. But when I pointed it out?

"Your father had a perpetually busted nose look. You have it too."

"Well, jeeze, thanks." Every time I think about it, I gotta look, gotta touch my nose, see if it looks as broken as his. Musta healed wrong, somewhere down the line, because I never thought mine looked that bad, shit. Not until it was actually broke, anyways.

In the photo, he had one bare arm hooked around her shoulders, and I could see he was all black and blue, see that he'd clearly had some kind of high training regimen, the sorta whipcord look you get from doin' the same shit day in and out.

"Your father had nice arms."

"Ma, quit pervin', would you?"

"No, I'm not. He was excellent with a bow and arrow. Better than me with my knives." And that kinda compliment never came easy for her, so I took it as fuckin' gospel that the guy was the reincarnated Robin Hood. "This was the morning before he left. Didn't say a word, him and his brother just packed up and hauled ass."

I squinted at the photo, because they were kinda on par.

"He's short." I told her.

She just laughed.

"Yeah. Don't hold out for any more growth spurts, baby, you're about near his height now."

Later, when I'd look at the picture, I'd notice different things. His red knuckles and the scars on his throat. I'd notice particular red marks on his one visible forearm I'd later identify as over using a bow without guards on. I'd notice all his fingers looked crooked and kinda stumpy, and I'd notice that he even had a bit missing from one ear. But he was covered in little freckles, like he_ lived_ in the sun.

And that made me think... maybe it wasn't so bad, for him.

"You'll wear a hole in it." My mother told me, and put the picture up on the fridge. "Stop goin' through my things."

"Don't hide them in such obvious places."

She just laughed.

"Oh, honey. The stuff I really don't want you to see is hidden better than that. Hundred bucks if you can find the 'don't open me', box."

I never did.

And... I'm kinda glad.

Occasionally, I'd go stare at the photo. Look at the flecks of hay in my mother's hair and see her making a kissy face at the camera. I'd see real affection in the way they were draped all over each other, and I could see they were good friends, but I never saw that earth shattering love, you know?

Sometimes - especially after I had my final growth spurt and stayed a short ass, motherfucking Barton's blood-

I'd just, you know. Be around the kitchen.

I sorta hung out there more and more, and wasn't sure why, but when ma moved the photo to my room I hung out there instead. Put it in a nice frame (I even paid for that, I remember getting so annoyed at the idea of my biological father being in something stolen).

But the stealing, for me, got a little bit worse when I got older. Even when ma paid for school, I ditched it to go hide in body and auto shops and see what the fuck was goin' on with the insides of cars. After I stole a car, I fucked around with it until I got the hot-wiring part down, and then started stealing cars to sell to people for cash. Never too much - coupla hundred, maybe a grand, but enough.

People are dumb, so most of those cars got picked up by the police after I was said and done, but that wasn't my business.

Ma didn't care, as long as I didn't get caught, or do drugs, or miss any more school. Now I realize that I had it pretty good.

But when you're a sixteen year old dude and not so interested in fucking everything that moves and your friends get talking because you're best friends with your mom?

I don't know.

I never used to let it get to me. I was just, fuckin', pissed off at everything. Poor, thief, no real name. The one of my birth certificate was Barton but I didn't _feel_ like a Barton, I felt like a loser, like I kept falling and I was never gonna hit the ground to feel steady. I felt cheap and nasty, and no amount of washing and scrubbing could get me to feel halfway clean.

Once I smashed the frame that had my dad's picture in it. Then I put it in my wallet.

But from theivin' got to bare knuckle fighting. At least I did it by myself, and pretty old, too. Had a couple of the kids be put in for the warm up, and they'd scratch each other stupid and be cryin' and screamin'. Some kid lost an eye once. I nearly threw up.

When I came home after the first night, it wasn't good.

I got my ass handed back to me in itty bitty pieces.

To be fair, I'd been in four rounds - used little tricks here and there to trip 'em up and sat on their backs to keep 'em down, but the last one wasn't tripped up too easy and he basically broke my nose into place, which is why I now look like my father's fuckin' spittin' image.

I chipped a tooth, and my collar bone was straight out busted. I fractured three knuckles and cracked my wrist, and he'd kicked me in the gut at one point but I'd never fully gotten my breath back home, about three hours later.

Ma went nuts.

Balls to the wall, gonna cut a bitch _crazy_.

I couldn't even speak, I was in shock. She pulled out knives, pulled out guns, got a honest to god fuckin' machete out -

"Point." she told me. "Point 'em out, I'm gonna gut 'em, no one, _no one touches my baby_-"

"Ma." I said, and sort of, slid her over the ticket with the time and place and the general gist of the matches. It was all crumbled and had blood spatter on it... probably mine... and shrank in my seat as she inflated. It was gonna happen, she was gonna actually kill me.

Then she eye-twitched at me and didn't talk for a full week.

I ended up mostly okay. That kinda shit heals by herself if you don't fuck around, so stealing and fist fighting were off the cards for like, four months. I got my first girlfriend, 'cuz I had all the spare time in the world to spend on her, and I'm pretty sure I loved her... And that was probably a mistake I could've gone without making.

* * *

><p>"He's crashing-"<p>

"Barton, move-"

Clint didn't. He stood right next to his son and _watched_.

"Someone get some adrenaline-"

"What if it accelerates his condition-?"

"He's already dying."

Clint flinched.

"We don't know what they pumped him full of - some kind of test sample drug made for mutants -"

While they argued the finer points of medicine and risk taking, Clint Barton's son flat lined.

"Do it." Clint said. His voice... was so low it hurt his throat. "I'm is father. Do what you have to."

So they slammed a needle through to his heart, and started running around, shouting things that blurred from their mouths to Clint's ears.

No one asked him to move again.

* * *

><p>"Who's this?" Daze - Daisy, my girlfriend - she'd been lookin' through my wallet. Didn't know why. Didn't care. She was worth all the money in there anyway. Well, at the time. I wouldda stole the sun and all the stars in the sky if she mentioned they might make her happy.<p>

"That's my dad." I told her. She was tucked all up on my side, snuggled in, leg hooked around my leg. I was half asleep and snoozy, sorta just content with the world. Wasn't angry, anymore, any way.

It was probably all the sex we were having, to be honest. Some kinda hormonal thing.

"He's not around?"

"Nah. Never has been. Don't even think he knows I'm alive."

She took a second, touching his face behind the plastic window.

"You look like him."

I made a noise at her.

"Naw, Frank." she laughed. It was nice. "He's kinda handsome, even if he isn't pretty."

Another noise.

"Thanks."

"You're welcome." She stared at the picture for a while more. "Do you get angry that he's not around?"

I'd never thought about it. All my angry was mostly because I stuck out like a sore thumb in any neighborhood, white trash or otherwise, I never fit.

I was always _looking_ at people, always _watching _for exits and how to steal shit. Normal people didn't like it, being observed. Being actually _seen_.

"Sometimes." I told her. It wasn't true. "All the time. I think it's just something to be angry about, at this point. Not his fault."

"My real dad left when I was nine." she told me. "I hated him for leaving, but I never stop missing him. I... I at least got a few years. You never got any."

"So I got nothin' to miss." I took the wallet back, looked at the photo. "I can't miss what ain't there, babe."

"Yes you can." she told me, and it kind of made a lot of sense.

We could've been good forever. I'm pretty sure she loved me.

The problem started with her family. Her step dad was stock and investment genius, super fucking rich - and hated me because I was not. Her mom was some kind of therapist and socially elite, and I was... not.

I'd dropped outta school, and with my stupid busted looking face - thanks, Barton - I _looked _like trouble. Wasn't like I meant to - like shit, I cleaned up for them, put on my nice jeans without any rips and a shirt with actual buttons. Never swore around them, never said a bad word, always treated their daughter with respect...

Still not _good_ enough.

For a little while, we rebelled, really in love, all that romantic, dramatic bullshit. She snuck out of her bedroom - I snuck into it - fucked like there was no tomorrow, like it could be the last time, every time. Told each other we loved each other, meant it.

But the parents put up better and better security. Not that it stopped me, fuck, it just made it better, like I was some kinda backwards hero, sneaking into her tower.

I got stupid. Started thinking with something other than my head, and when she finally started pulling away - because they'd set her up with a pretty rich boy and he was _staying in their house_ and he was _eloquent_ and _tall_ - I decided, somehow, it'd be a good idea to steal from them.

Except it wasn't. Because they knew how I did things, by that point.

And long, long story short, I got ID'd, got thrown into prison...

Ma broke us outta prison - because my mother, the fuckin' hurricane - but suddenly, my ex is pregnant and saying I did it and that she didn't _want it_ and now I got a fuckin' rapist record as well as bein' a washed out theivin', no good thug with a broken fuckin' nose and not a cent to my name.

So we ran.

* * *

><p>"Clint." Natasha was pulling on his hand. "You need to eat something."<p>

He didn't budge, just stared at the cold hand in his, the lumpy fingers from not being set right, the familiar callouses and the blunt, wide nails. He just stared.

"Clint." she said, lowly, gently. "Shower, shave, come back. No one will touch him. He'll be here. I'll watch him."

The kid was so cold. Clint recognized his own build in the narrow set of his hips and the thick muscle built in his shoulders. He was on the shorter side of life, of course he was, but he looked strong. Well fed. Pretty healthy, even if his skin was blueish... Even if he could count the veins, and both eyes were blacked.

"Jesus, still here?" that was Tony's voice. "Leave the kid alone-"

"I've done that his whole life. I'm not doing it now." he put both hands out, not feeling, but seeing them land on the kid's wrist and the crook of his elbow. He squeezed, swallowed. "I'm not leaving him alone. Not any more."

There was a pause. Tony put a tablet on the bed and slid it over.

"Read that." he said. "It's-... For you."

* * *

><p>I thank god for ma, because she knew what she was doin', knew how to live off cash with no cash and all the rest of it. I stole cars, stole clothes, stole money, stole food, got angrier and angrier. Blamed him. Blamed the father that wasn't there, who had nothing to do with me, who couldn't stop it.<p>

Because if he was there, would it have ever gotten that far? Maybe two minimum wages would've raised a kid. I still woulda been poor, but I woulda been decent, right?

The theivin' got worse.

Hit banks, hit galleries, got on some people's lists for go-tos and we started gettin' paid to nick shit. Never got caught.

But still, Clint Barton's blood got me into more trouble than it got me out of. Rickety hangings in the ventilation shafts and I'd find 'em by fallin' out the roof. Particularly suspicious guards and they'd find me... or that one time when two of them were fuckin' in a cupboard and the door happened to swing open as I was walking past with a fancy gold egg in hand.

Point is, stealing was kind of our thing, the family business, because of me and my dick.

And ma... wasn't getting any younger. I had to take on more and more - and I was happy, of course I would do it. She was my constant, and I loved her, and I should've seen it coming, but she was getting sneakier and sneakier with me.

So when she died ... she just didn't wake up one morning. Couldn't have stopped it, which is the worst. If it hadda been something to fight she would've fought it. But this was sneaky. This was the one thing that ever crept up on her. Some kind of clot or something in her brain, shorted her out, she probably didn't even wake up...

I just kind of...

Didn't deal well, with it.

Which is what brought me back to bare knuckle fighting.

Stealing wasn't enough. Stealing reminded me of her. And I wanted to forget.

Pain helped, hitting people helped more. Occasionally they'd warp and their faces would be worn and already beaten and winking at me and I just _lost my shit _and wailed on them until I had to get pulled off.

They stopped calling me Frank. They started calling me Jack. For Jack the Ripper.

My name got pretty famous. No one expects a runt of a kid to take on full grown, muscle bound fuckers. But I'm _tricky_. Underestimated. She told me once it was from _him_.

That was the first time I got on SHIELD's radar. Stupidly, they put an agent in the rounds and expected training to win out with skill and focus over sheer rage. He would've been, what, thirty? Had an extra hundred pounds on me. Six foot something, built like a brick.

Took me like... ten seconds. I don't know. Hardly remember.

What I remember is being approached by some old fucker in a suit, all:

"Hello, my name is Phil Coulson, I'm with the Strategic Homeland Intervention and Logistics Division. Do I call you Mr. Ripper?"

I don't even know how it happened. All I knew was, one second I was alone and my goal in life was to get high and punch people. Then I had a handler and I was back in school and people were trying to teach me how to fight with rules.

The fighting I excelled at. Because I'm good at that. That doesn't come with a text book. But the text book stuff? Not good. I ended up going into the ring, planting whatever chip they wanted on the mark, and fuckin' off.

I ran, and I kept running.

Except... Except for that little while, those people, that schedule, it clicked with me.

But the circus clicked with me more.

And I'd never been in one, because ma didn't like them if she wasn't in them. So it didn't remind me of her as much as it did of him, because all I had of him was a photo of them in a circus. The circus was his thing. She had more to her to remember, to hurt me.

The ringmaster was some kind of illegal immigrant, the strong man was on ALL THE DRUGS, one of the trapeze girls was wanted for assault and battery. There was a long laundry list of things the cops wanted from our people, but no one said a thing. If I ever mentioned I was an accused rapist and master thief, they never brought it up again.

That was nice. The chaos was distracting. I made friends with the people and the camels.

It just so happened that they ended up having a bow and coupla arrows I messed around with from time to time, and it just so happened that I got really good at it, really quick. I didn't consciously associate the bow with him, even when I knew that was his thing. Like, it didn't click until much, much later, that I was trying to earn my mother's:

"He was better with a bow than me with my knives."

The bow and I, we got this good thing goin'. It's about the only thing in my life that's never, not once, fucked up on me. I don't know what kind of old school voodoo it is, but I generally hit what I'm aiming at. Wouldn't say perfect shot, but up there, getting there.

The problem was that SHIELD had my blood and they wanted more.

A year after the circus life - of honing skills that wouldn't be else wise used, Phil showed his mug in my trailer. I nearly shishkabobbed him, pulled up at the last second and nailed his jacket to the wall.

He - the cool fucker - just kinda raised his brows.

"Mr. Ripper." he said. "I don't know if you remember me, I'm Phil-"

"Coulson. Hard to forget." I put the bow down. "What, you need another fist fighter or somethin'?"

"Not this time, no." he eyed the arrow. "Can I take this out?"

I just kinda smiled.

"If you think you can, go for it."

He had to break it. That thing was buried up to the fuckin' hilt, and wasn't to mess around - had a metal barb on an everything. I almost killed him, seriously, I'd been aiming at his heart.

"Mr. Ripper, I'm here on behalf of the Strategic-"

"Right, yeah, I know." I waved him along, saved him the trouble of the speech. He didn't look grateful, but he didn't look peeved, either. "Did you, uh, wanna coke or something?"

Look, I don't know why I said it, just that I did. He even smiled at me for it.

"Yes, please. Mind if I take a seat?"

"If you can find the space." I told the fridge. I dug out two cans and passed him one, eyeing his dainty perch on the edge of my table. It was full of dirty laundry, and I realized my tiny trailer probably smelt like it. "I can crack a window if you want?"

"I'd like that."

So I did, and then I sat on the edge of my bed and stared at the can in my hands because I didn't have anything to say to the guy and my care factor was less than zero.

"So, uh. Are you gonna kidnap me or something?"

"No." he paused, like he was looking for the right words to say. "I have a particular mission. There are only so many agents we have that are your age, and none of them quite fit the bill."

From in his coat - with a neat hole in the top of the paper, because hey, I shot at him earlier - he pulled out a file. He sort of, leaned forward to hand it to me and I took it. Don't know why, when all I'd ever done is watch people, I couldn't quite look at him. At that point I was - fuck. I was like, seventeen. I was basically an adult.

"What's this?" I put my drink aside, looked up from under my lashes to see him calmly holding his between linked fingers.

"That's a mission brief." he said mildly. "I thought of you. Do you want to read it?"

I passed it back. He didn't take it immediately.

"Can't read too good." I told the floor.

I heard paper rustling.

"That would explain why you didn't do any of your written work." he said, smoothly. Not like a bad thing, just like a thing that happened. "You were excelling, you know. In the system. We were very upset to see you go."

"We." I scoffed. "'We' were upset because none of them know how to punch someone in the face like I do."

"Our agency is full of people with different skill sets. Yours lean more to the physical." he opened the folder, and I can't remember his exact words, but they were along the lines of: "Basically, we need someone who looks young to inject him as a sleeper cell in some fancy school or rather because we're pretty sure someone's gonna kill the president's son."

"I'm not good with words," I told him. "Goin' to a school ain't gonna be any kind of good-"

"It's not that kind of school." he took a second. "Are you familiar with Xavier's school for the Gifted?"

I wasn't.

* * *

><p>For a long time, Clint didn't move, just like the kid, his son.<p>

He studied the stubborn tilt to his chin and the bumps in his nose and the swelling in one cheek. The mutant lady with the white hair had said that he'd been mouthy. Stubborn, trying to protect her. She said the only reason they even stuck him with the needles was because he was being a nuisance. Logan sort of, hovered, for a long second, narrowing his eyes at the kid on the bed, nostrils flaring. Then he grunted something about the kid bein' built tough, and walked out.

Clint didn't hear much of anything, just the steady beep beep beep of a slowing heart.

Eventually, Natasha read the tablet for something to do, while the mutant lady whispered prayers under her breath, clasping the kid's damaged hand to her mouth. A doctor came in to talk to her about some guy's knee caps, and she kissed Jack on the brow, a single tear dropping onto his cheek and rolling down into his ear.

"I'll see you soon." she whispered.

As soon as the lady was gone, Natasha started reading to the remaining Barton.

* * *

><p>The premise was that I had rage triggered abilities, so that as long as I was calm, I was good. Xavier was in on it - had to be, the fucker could read minds - so he kind of just stuck me into classes with lots of running and climbing and shit, and told me to tell everyone I was a Level 1 and my parents had abandoned me.<p>

Except... They had, and they hadn't, and I wasn't a good liar, like ma. One night, we were in our dorm, the president's son - Isaac - and me, staring into the dark and tryn' to sleep. Out of the blue, he straight asked me if either of my parents had the gene. At that point, I thought he was talking about _jeans_, which is what I get for missing school to go steal cars.

"My dad doesn't." Isaac said. "He got tested. It came from my mother's side of the family. Apparently that only happens in three per cent. Usually the father is the carrier, you know." there was a pause, then:

"Except the first lady got tested and she doesn't have the gene either."

I was thinking _these fuckers just needed to go buy their damn pants already_, but the small revelation got lodged in my brain and I was like_, that's shit, dude_.

"I don't know if it'll make you feel any better... But my dad doesn't even know I'm around. I think." I told him. "Don't know how your mom gave you up."

"He's the president of the united states." Isaac's smiles were always tired and sad, so I did't actually have to see him to know. "He can do what he likes. He just didn't count on me being..." he lifted a hand, and I watched his veins fill with a pale glow. He kind of, hovered a little, off the bed, his eyes washed white and clear. I'd never seen awesome mutant talents, before, even in my circus, so I fuckin' applauded.

"Which I could do something cool like that." I told him.

It was the wrong thing to say.

"Well, aren't your talents triggered by rage?"

"I can't float."

"What can you do?"

I panicked, a little.

"I don't know, dude."

"Oh. You black out or something, okay." there was a pause. "Some of the kids here think you're not like us."

"Who?"

"I don't know. They don't tell me because we're friends." After his little glow trick, my eyes were imprinted with him on them, so they weren't as good. He kind of, surprised me, when he sat on the edge of my bed. "We're friends, right?"

"Yeah...?"

"Can I ask you a favor?"

"...Is it gay?"

"It's a little bit gay."

It wasn't like it wasn't a thing, I mean shit. Carnies are a bit loose with the fucking, let's be honest, story of my actual life. It was just that it hadn't been a thing for _me_.

"What kinda gay are we talkin', here?" I muttered.

There was a pause, and then he kinda climbed into my bed, pulled my arm around his stomach, and relaxed.

"Just a little bit gay." he told the darkness.

"Oh." I shifted, kinda situated my dick away from his ass, but spooned up behind him anyways. "That's alright then. Little bit of gay never hurt anyone. You okay?"

I heard him swallow.

"Nah, man, I'm not."

I don't really know what to do with feelings. My own either get bottled up, drunk out, or I punch people.

"Wanna tell me about it?"

He shook his head, put his hand over my hand.

"I'm just really glad we're friends, Jack."

"Yeah, me too." I said, and slept like a fuckin' rock.

Mistake.

When I woke up, Isaac wasn't in the bed, but neither was I. I was floating, and Isaac was watching, hands up, holding me in place. His eyes were white, his veins were more hidden in the day light, and he was trembling all over.

"Why," he said through his teeth. "When I touch you, do I not sense level 1?"

I blinked. Not really conscious until my third cup of coffee, I straight out told him.

"I don't have any."

"What." it wasn't even a question. "That's not - you're not a level 1. Everyone said you're level 1, and I'm only a level 2 so why are you even here?"

"To protect you." Shit, now I think about it, I'm pretty sure he had some kind of force truth abilities, in addition to his glowing and mutant testing and hovering. Or maybe I literally just can't lie to people.

He tilted his head.

"Jack?"

"Yeah?"

"Are you only pretending to be my friend?"

"Nah, man. I'm not like that."

There was a pause. Then I was bouncing on the bed, weird out, and he was outta there.

Later, fuckin', Phil called.

"Why has your mark requested to move rooms citing 'inappropriate touching'?" he said, and it... made me mad.

Okay, I Hulked out.

"OH, this is about my fuckin' record, right? What she said? What the cops say I did, because, of course, the poor fuck with the busted face is a - how about FUCK YOU VERY MUCH. I didn't start it, I barely even touched him, I was just being - he - you know what? Fuck this, I don't need you, I don't need this, I'm out, this is done, fuck off!"

Still clutching the phone in my hand, and stupidly not hanging up, I started walking towards the front gates. I nearly ran into Wolverine, but both of us dodged, swinging sharply aside. He had one eyebrow up but didn't say a word.

I think -... There woulda been a couple mutants in there. Like, a few of my classmates about three, one of the real young kids, and Professor Ororo - who's name I can't say propl'y so she lets me call her Roro. I think I'm the only one because Wolverine tried it once and she made it hail on him for an hour.

"Jack," Phil said in my ear. "Calm down. I want to hear what happened. Tell me what-"

Part of me was just pissed off because I'd failed.

The rest was back up about the fuckin' rapist thing. I was so sure, so, so sure, that Xavier was gonna kick me out, or get me hurt or something. I don't know why it never occurred to me that wheels can read minds, and would know I'd never, but... I was just used to the doubt.

And I thought Phil was better than that.

"I don't gotta tell you shit, dude, I'm not your kid, alright? You don't gotta look after me, I can do it myself, and you know that, so I don't know what you were thinkin' when you put me the fuck in here. This - this isn't for me, and even if I was any kind of proper special you don't think I'd be makin' a fuckin' mint outta it somewhere else? Like where you _found me_? In my _circus_?! This is bullshit, find someone else, maybe some one who can actually _read_ a book instead of stare at it for a mother fuckin' half hour and not know what the damn thing says!"

Phil was quiet, during, and I swear to god I could actually hear his mild face just listening. Do you know how weird it is that someone was listening to me? Or that I could_ hear his face_?

"No, Jack, you're not my kid." he said, real slow. "But some one does have to look after you."

It kind of, froze me. All my angry went out like a bad lighter. I put my head up to the wall, hunched up, got all still and quiet. I knew everyone was lookin' at me down the hall. I knew that some could probably hear me. But I couldn't move from the spot, because I was thinking, _this is what a dad must be like_, and I was thinking, _this is some dangerous shit for me, and I'm gonna end up gettin' hurt_.

"Jack?" he said in my ear.

"What?" I bit back at him.

"Tell me what happened." he said it like a demand, but it was - softer, somehow. Like a question, kinda. Like I didn't have to, if I really didn't want to. Fuckin' Phil.

"I didn't do anything bad." I told him. "I swear."

"I believe you." that was it. That was all it took. It felt like he knew that I haddn't hurt anyone, hadn't raped any girls and got them pregnant. Three words, and I was totally boned. Coulda asked me to jump off a damn bridge and I woulda -... I might've, actually. Jumped off a bridge. "I've put you in a room next to him. This phone call is a checkup."

The words: 'I wanted to hear what you had to say,' went unsaid.

"Checkup," I muttered. Mighta banged my head against the wall. "Right. Of course. You're handling it."

"I'm your handler." he said, and it sounded weirdly easy. Usually, me and authority? We don't mix up so well. But 'handler' wasn't superior. 'Handler' sounded a bit more like friend than anything else I'd ever heard. "Just keep an eye on him, Jack, we both know you can do that."

"Yeah, I know." I think I mighta banged my head against the wall a bit too hard, because Roro started to walk down towards me, all concerned and pretty and shit.

"Alright. Sit tight, observe." he waited a second. "Academically, you're doing fine."

"What do you know about it?" I watched her. She was angular, tiny, with white hair and lips like you wouldn't believe. Her skin was beautiful and clear, gold and bronze and smooth. I definitely didn't have any kind of sexy teacher student fantasies about her.

"I get weekly reports." he informed me. He took a second. "You're improving."

"Doesn't feel like it." I kinda put back to the wall, hid behind it, heard her boots stop clunking toward me. "They open their mouths and talk and talk at me, and I get three outta ten words they say. Takes me hours to read a fuckin' chapter, and no one can read what I write 'cuz I can't spell for shit."

"But three out of ten is improvement." he pointed out. "You're a survivor, Jack, it's in your blood. All you need to do is survive." was his advice, and I don't know how he knew - at the time, I thought he was talking about my ma - but now I know he knew my parents, I'm not sure who he meant.

And at that point, I'm pretty sure he'd mostly guessed at my genetics.

Mighta been the bow that done it.

Mighta been the fact that we have almost the same face, I dunno. But he knew who I was without any written proof except for Barton's name on my birth certificate, even if Barton's name wasn't in the actual listed part of the father bit.

"Survive." I just shook my head. "Survivin' is easy. I can survive just fine. This is fucked up. What the fuck's maths got letters in it for, huh? And when'm I gonna use it?"

"Apply it to your bow." he mused. "Ask one of your professors."

"What are they gonna know about shootin' shit?" I grunted, peeked around the corner to see Roro, waiting patiently, politely looking out the window like she wasn't listening. Phil chuckled in my ear.

"I'll be in touch, Jack." he said, and it sounded - kind.

I'm not used to kind. It made me all... shifty.

"Yeah, you do what you do."

And he hung up.

There was a moment. Sorta sheepish, I guess, I walked around the corner and shrugged a shoulder at Roro.

"Shouldn't of sworn in front of the kids," I told her. "Uhm... Or you. If it bothers you. I'm sorry."

"It doesn't really bother me," she crossed arms around herself loosely, tilting her head at me. "I'm more upset that you needed to say it in the first place. Are you alright?"

"Yeah..." I didn't say want to tell her anymore, really. "Just, you know. Adults."

"Oh, yeah. I know all about that." she gave me one of those pretty smiles. I was very masculine. I did not melt, or lean against the wall and I didn't flex at her. "Anything you want to talk about?"

"Not... not that I don't wanna, but... There's nothin' to say, really. Just, you know. Adults." she nodded, and considered me.

"Come with me. I've got someone I want you to meet."

First thing I saw about this guy was that he was fuckin' blue. Scarred up in patterns, with a tail.

Stupidly, probably in shock, I pointed at it.

"That's probably good for balancing, right?"

His smile was small. His voice was accented.

"It is."

"This is Jack," Roro said, putting a hand on my shoulder. "He was in a circus. Jack, this is Kurt." Her smile for him was a lot softer. I mighta been a dumb kid with a crush a mile wide for her, but she had it bad for him.

"I was in a circus, also." he mentioned. "It is strange, now, to think about that life when this one is so different."

I swallowed, shrugged. She was... being nice. Putting circus freaks together. I appreciated it, because the fuckin' normal people weirded me out, after only a year under the big top.

"I miss camels." I told him.

There was a mild chuckle.

"I miss the elephants. Camels never like me."

"Elephants, huh?" We'd never had any, and I told him so.

"It is a shame. They're gentle."

"And they don't spit." I muttered.

When he asked me what my act was, I told him, then asked what his was, and he showed me. Disappeared in a puff of blue smoke and reappeared in the same instant, behind me. Then gone, again, and in front of me before I'd finished spinning to see where he'd gone.

And I'd seen some _tricky shit_, but that? Was cool.

From there, we kinda just talked a lot. Reminisced. I mentioned the cheekier shit I got up to and he told me about when his powers came in handy. Eventually, I went, got my bow and arrows, and told him to pick five targets.

I bought four arrows out, watched as he picked them, then I shot 'em all, using one arrow to bounce off a tree and clip the last two targets - and he was hella impressed. I just grinned, because it was so good, just to be good at something, in that school.

What I didn't know was, Cyclops saw my target practice.

And aside from telling me off for shootin' things in the middle of a public area, he showed me where the target run was, so I could shoot things from the back of a truck. After I bullseye'd every single one of 'em ten times in a row, he took me down to where the X-men train, where they simulate potential war zones that are always random.

I had the time of my fuckin' life.

Of course, the arrows I had had suction cup tip so I didn't accidentally kill anyone, even if I never, not once, got even close.

But to get in there, I had to maintain a grade, and to maintain the grade, I had to actually do some work.

That's when Miss Grey started tutoring me, an hour every day at lunch. She was giving up her break time for me, so I did the same, and I fuckin' worked my brain raw. Mostly because I really liked the training rooms, but after about a week of her careful teaching - prodding around in my skull and seeing how I thought helped - I started to understand.

I started to read faster. I could write most words without inventing the spelling.

In the arena, I got to mess about with Kurt and Roro, and sometimes Wolverine, who didn't appreciate me using his general width like a spring board on the occasion I needed it. He couldn't cut me, though, not when anyone else was around, so I was fine, and did it anyway.

I was shootin' upside down, sideways, even behind my head sometimes. The maths helped. The instinct was better, that was what I knew, what I'd known for so long.

Wolverine, Roro and Kurt all got it. It made Cyclops uneasy, and made Professor Grey smile because she could hear me thinking all the time.

Everything was good. So, so good.

And then it wasn't.

Isaac got targeted and even if I knew it was why I was there, once the threat was said and dealt with - lying on the floor with six arrows stickin' out his fuckin' knee caps - and there was no more talk about him being nabbed for anti-mutant in the white house shenanigans, Phil came to pick me up.

It was... hard, to leave.

I had friends there, good friends. And I was learning.

I'd never had this with the circus - people came and went and were generally all sorts of suss but it wasn't like that, in the legit institute with a buncha kids who just... had more to offer the world.

But Phil - I knew Phil. Phil put me in the school in the first place.

Lookin' back, I shouldn't have gone. Should've studied and stayed put. I was fine there. I would've worked any hours, done any labor, to make the tuition. But I was loyal to Phil, and Phil knew it better'n I did.

* * *

><p>Clint was holding onto Jack's forearm with both hands, just listening to the Widow speak. He'd smile when Jack had written something funny, but frown whenever he was mentioned so offhandedly. When Phil became a more prevalent character, his frowning was deeper and his smiles less frequent.<p>

But the Widow read on.

* * *

><p>Stands to reason, with the blood I got, I ended up losin' out more often than not.<p>

I was in SHIELD and I could keep up academically, but relearning stuff physically was all sorts of hard and nasty. I wrote Roro emails, sometimes Skyped with Kurt, and while that shit never usually lasts, I am not built with the rest of the age and I made sure we stayed friends, even just cyber friends. Once or twice I saw Wolverine, Cyclops, Prof. Grey. I was seventeen when I went to Xavier's, and I was twenty when I finally met my father.

Course, he saw me, because that's what Barton men do. But he didn't see his _kid_.

I don't blame the guy, though, I mean - I woulda been halfa head shorter, a touch stockier, maybe a little bit better fed. He took my sniping 101 class as punishment for bad report writing, so why would he expect some long lost son to be there?

He did double take me, though. Like he saw me and recognized the face, but had no idea.

Which, whatever. Better'n nothing.

I-

Sometimes I wish I had've mentioned it.

But I'm not good with words, never have been. Didn't expect him to show up so I wasn't prepared, didn't even know he was involved with SHIELD until then.

Quietly, I attended all his mandated classes, even the ones I'd seen twice, three times before. I know he saw me, noticed my being there, but just figured I was like, committed, or something. I guess he didn't mind, as long as someone was hearing him.

Each time, I thought about our similarities. Ma really wasn't kidding when she mentioned we looked alike. Still, I just watched, because sitting still and observing from a distance fit me more comfortably than actively participating in anything.

Except for when

* * *

><p>There was a knock on the door. Steve came in, big and sheepish and with his head hung low, so Natasha stopped reading to look up at Clint.<p>

For a long second, there was nothing, just the beep of Jack's machines and Steve's uneasy shifting on his sneakers.

"You know I had to stop it." he said, swallowing. "We had too little Intel and you could've been killed, and killed everyone else involved. I know I'm not welcome here-"

Clint grunted, loudly, but didn't look at him.

There was a pause.

"How's he doing?" he asked roughly.

"Coma." Natasha offered.

"The drugs?"

"In combination with the adrenaline, he had a heart attack and something has clogged his brain. No one understands his readings. They're... off all sorts of charts, not registering on others.."

There was a pause.

"Tasha," Clint whispered. "Keep reading."

"Reading what?" Steve said.

Natasha didn't answer, nor did Clint. She began reading again.

* * *

><p>Except for when he picked up his bow, Jesus H. I thought he was easy with a rifle but he really was the reincarnated Robin Hood - the bow was his physical extension. It was a part of his arm. And while yeah, it was impressive with bullets, there was something about the mastery of the bow I had to absolutely know.<p>

So one day, I decide, hell, he's here anyway. Might as well.

"Hey, uh-." _Don't say dad. Don't say dad._ "Sir."

"Come down from the nest, huh?" he didn't even turn to look at me, just packed his shit away.

"...Yeah."

"You can come watch from down here, you know."

I felt stupid talking to the back of his head, but it was better, some how.

"Yeah. I know. I mean. Yeah."

"Come here for fun, or is there something I can do for you?"

I say talking to the back of his head was better because at least I could form a proper fuckin' sentence. The second he turned around and stood, I was three years old, askin' my ma why everyone else on the street got a dad and I didn't.

My mouth, I'm pretty sure, made a valiant attempt at noise. But nothin' came out, not even a peep.

And Barton? Gave me a once over, saw my hands, cocked his head.

"Re-curve?"

I nodded.

"Hmph." he squinted at my fingers, then shouldered his gear and walked off. "You're a lefty, kid, try the other hand."

It ended up being the best bit of advice I was ever given. Although I had to work up my callouses in different places, I had better aim, hitting a bulls eye nine outta ten times. I had to strengthen the opposite muscle groups, but the strain and burn was familiar. And worth it. So, so worth it.

Phil handled us both, so occasionally we'd cross in the waiting area outside his office, hang out.

Which might not of been a coincidence, actually.

"Hey, Lefty." he gave me a lousy salute. "How's the bow?"

I croaked a noise that was supposed to be a word. Then cleared my throat and said:

"Better."

"Good. How long you been in SHIELD?"

Again, no noise when my mouth moved. I swallowed, looked at my feet. Told them:

"Couple years."

"Huh. Should've noticed another archer by now. I'm off my game."

"I'm not registered as an archer. I'm usually on the ground." I told my feet. "I'm - a hand-to-hand combative specialist. I'm not as good as you, at shootin' stuff. Or as stealthy. I just - hit things. With my fists. Sometimes."

Brain to mouth, come in? Repeat, brain to mouth, do you copy?

Negative, mouth is AWOL.

"Yeah?" he sounded amused. I couldn't look at him, so I guessed. "Specialist, huh? Must be special. You're pretty young, and Phil already has his quota of agents."

I glanced at him, but he was scanning the area, so I got a quick look in at his face and the small cuts on his throat. I asked my feet about them. He told me what he could about his last mission, but he could've been reciting the fuckin' alphabet for all I know, because my brain was in overload.

_Sittin' next to dad, sittin' next to dad, shit, shit, play it cool, be cool, dude, he's just havin' a chat with a coworker, don't call him anything that isn't 'sir'..._

Thankfully, Phil finally opened his door and saved me from the most bizarre and backwards torture ever. He handed Clint whatever papers he needed to sign and invited me in the office, but Clint followed. If he hadn't guessed before then, my broken sweat and nervously bouncing knees probably gave it away. The entire time Clint was there, I was a mess.

Which is exactly what you want to be around your not-dad dad.

The next couple of times we met, it was like that - I'd get nervous and not look at him when I spoke, and he'd chat to me about whatever. It was never awkward, he was never rude or anything, he's a friendly dude. A couple times he tried to engage about the bow - those were the times Phil came out earlier than normal, and I think we both knew that it was suspicious as balls.

For reasons I can only identify as 'SHIELD' - I can't explain what happened between my twentieth and twenty first year. I worked a lot, that's for damn sure. If it weren't for Phil's impromptu party planning, I wouldn't have noticed my birthday, not really.

So imagine that I have Roro and Kurt and maybe Wolverine for friends, imagine that I know Clint's my dad and Phil's acting like it, and then imagine I get called into his office at all hours of the fuckin' morning and show up to cinnamon rolls and coffee cake, and a banner that says 'Happy Birthday' hanging above the desk.

And... Everyone smiles. Roro gives me her prettiest grin, Kurt's sittin' on the edge of a table and his tail is swinging, which basically means he's happy. Everyone looks like they've been awake forever, and Clint is definitely a little dusty and he was in combat gear, so I was guessing he literally came in from his last op.

Judging purely on the bunch of papers he still hasn't signed on the table next to him, I could tell he had.

"I didn't want to say anything." Phil mentions. "Because I didn't know if everyone could come."

And my eyes? Stuck on dad. _Dad's at my twenty first_. I just looked at him, all easy, chatting to Wolverine.

"Do they know each other?"

"Vaguely, through missions on the field. I didn't get you anything solid." he mentioned.

"This is enough." I told him, in a heroic and manly whisper. I do not wipe my face. I did not cry. "This is perfect."

"You're welcome." he said, all quiet. He patted my arm, got himself a roll and some coffee. "Have fun."

I had to toughen up, Jesus. So I sniffed, made a show about yawning, and wondered over to them all.

"Mornin', Roro." I said, all rough and tumble, giving her the slowest smile I could manage. Look, she's still a babe, and a man can dream. Even if Kurt's lazy tail swinging went whip-crack fast, flicking like he was about to pounce me and claw my face off.

"Good morning, Jack." she said, and opened her arms for me. I was only a bit taller than her, but I'd bulked up. It felt a bit like I was gonna squash her, so real gently, I put arms around her waist, put my head to her shoulder. "God, you've grown again. Happy birthday, sweetheart. How are you?"

"M'good." I leaned back, touched her short hair. When I knew her, it was long, pure white. The spikes where black at the base, blending through to grey and then the white I knew and loved. "This's nice. You look pretty."

"Thank you." she said, smiling, reaching up to tug on my hair, which'd grown out from the last cut, a bit longer than usual. "You need a hair cut, Hotshot."

I didn't giggle. It wasn't giggling. I don't giggle, like I said, I'm a man.

"Yeah, I, uh... Got busy." I ran a hand through it, tucked it back in whatever product was in it from yesterday. "I, uh - do you like it?"

"I do. It's very nice." And I believed her, dammit. You can shape a man all you want, put him in fatigues and put a rifle in his hands, but teenage crushes always hit the hardest. "You look happy."

"I was happier with you guys." I told her.

Phil scoffed quietly from his desk.

"Here." Roro said, pushing a small box into my hands. "It's from me and Kurt. Wolverine has bought his own." and with the look she shot him, Wolverine had better have bought his own.

I pulled the wrappings off, set them aside, opened up the box to see that she'd gotten my a scope for any instrument of my choice - it was a fancy Stark one, with multipurpose attachments, extremely good sight. Word had it is was unbreakable, had a small installment of high powered projectiles stored in the sides, water/fire/nature proofed, not to mention the multitude of viewing options - heat, macro, holy shit. I just about salivated over the damn thing, still am.

"Roro-"

"Before you tell me it's too much, you're worth it. Every cent."

I did not tear up, again, just hid my face against her shoulder. Because. Manliness.

"Thanks." I muttered. I looked up at Kurt, went to hug him too. "Thank you, man. Shit. Thanks a lot."

"Of course." he patted my shoulder, let me out. "Happy birthday."

"Thanks."

And me? Because, clearly, I'm an adult, with adult feelings, went straight to my dad, showing him the scope.

"Have you used one of these before?" I asked him.

"Couple times. Stark won't give me any new toys to play with because I end up... borrowing them."

I laughed. Because of course he did.

Wolverine looked over, scrutinizing it in the box.

"You don't need it, kid." he told me, matter of fact. "You got best pair of eyes I ever seen on a human. 'Bout as good as yours, Barton."

"I've seen him," Clint said. It meant the whole world to me. "I'm starting to think he's gonna take my place once I get shot or something."

"You're not gonna get shot." I muttered, then realized how petulant and out-of-place I sounded, and looked at Wolverine, holding out my hand. "C'mon, give me presents."

Kurt snickered, Roro made unhappy attitude noises. Phil's eyebrows went up. But Wolverine just casually reached into his back pocket and bought out a single dog tag with a rubber trim on it, and put it in my hand.

The metal was dented, but at an angle, and there were faint scratch marks around the sides. I tilted my head at it, then at him, slow smile winding up on my mouth.

"Did you cut this with your claws?"

"Yes." he said, leaning back against the wall, arms crossed. "Thought you'd like it. Everyone gets a name in Xavier's, you just left before you could get your tag."

I looked at the tag again, to see correct birth date, blood type, etc, etc, but where my name should've been, it just said: 'Hotshot'. I laughed, because, hey cool, I have a nick name now. And then I stopped laughing, because Wolverine all casually said:

"I was lookin' through your file. Did you know you two have the same last name?" he motioned from me to Clint with his chin.

I nearly dropped the tag. Made my excuses not to look at anyone as I fumbled to put it on the existing chain around my neck.

"Yeah." I told the carpet. "Course I realized that. He's taken a couple of my classes. Shit, tells me I got the best eyes he knows and reckons I haven't realized the same name as me after over two years-"

"Still a sass mouth, ain't cha?" he swatted at me, but I didn't have to be looking at him to duck under it. "Shoulda stayed. Woulda knocked it outta you by now."

"If you could've landed a hit." I shot him a shit-eating grin. "You couldn't even do it when I was in the academy. Don't front, it's unbecoming."

"You been here too long." he muttered, flicking eyes at Coulson. "Didn't worry so much about 'unbecoming' when you were with us."

"That's what happens when you get an actual paying job."

He rolled his eyes, shook his head.

"Why am I even here? The kid doesn't even like me."

"I like your present." I tapped the tags hanging off my chest.

Clint snickered.

"Hotshot, huh?" he stood, stretched. "C'mon. My present's different. Course, I was pretty sure I was coming back from the last op but then again, shit happens, so I don't have anything to give you, exactly, but I got a couple lessons in me."

"You hate lessons." I blinked, stupidly.

"I hate teaching classes with high powered rifles." he corrected. Wolverine made noises like he knew about it. "I'm gonna show you a thing or two with the bow. Bring your pretty StarkTech, there, we'll try it out."

"You'll need a longer range." Roro said.

"I have day passes." Phil said mildly. "Enjoy. It's your annual leave."

Clint just took it with a grin. I stuffed mine in my pocket so no one would notice the trembling.

"Let's go, kiddo." he said, and got his bow.

It was a fuckin' piece of art. I'd never seen it up close. It was bigger than mine, with a thicker wire. I could only imagine what kind of range it had. Quick maths in my head told me it would well out shoot mine by hundreds of meters, easy.

We, all of us, went out to some parkland under the dome. Shot the shit. Mucked around. Had fun. By lunch time, Clint and I were sweatin' up a storm but still goin' strong. During all that, we were pretty much par for the course, but I have the feeling he was goin' easy on me, and I was givin' almost everything I had.

We decided to break for lunch. Dad went to go and get another bow and show me how to use that too and I was fuckin' jazzed about it.

So it was me, the once-mutant kid, with a buncha actual mutants, and yeah, I can see how HYDRA got confused, actually.

* * *

><p>The heart rate beeped a steady line. Clint started chest compressions before the doctors got there. Natasha kept reading.<p>

* * *

><p>It was real quick, when they took us. And Roro has all these fancy weather powers but she can't use them unconsciously, which is what they rendered her. Kurt has problems teleporting if he can't see, and evidently he misjudged the box they shoved us all into because he disappeared for point five of a second and came back without kneecaps.<p>

Wolverine couldn't do much - they'd shoved us into a box together - Kurt rolling Roro on top of him so he didn't accidentally suffocate her. But no, I get the hundreds of pounds of Adimantium skeleton on me, all shoved up so his fists were under my jaw, which is the opposite of what I wanted.

I had my new StarkTech scope in my pocket but no bow or arrows. We must've been in there, breathing the same air, mumbling and shifting to try and get comfortable - which, couldn't fucken do. I mean I'm not big, but Logan is, and Roro was taking as much room as we let her have, which was most of it.

And the next part, well, that's tricky.

I had done my SHIELD training, heard the bit about, you know, identifying captors and surroundings and playing nice and all that shit. Except I'm not built like that. Me 'n' Wolverine just about decimated the fuckin' lot. Like, we killed and hurt a bunch of people. If I think really hard - which is getting harder - I guesstimte a lot. Although I can't be sure. But they kept coming, and we kept going, and then some asshole got Roro.

And that sat with me about as well as you'd expect.

I don't got a lot of friends and cherish the ones I do. So I mighta... you know. Lost my actual shit. I couldn't lose her. I wasn't gonna let it happen.

* * *

><p>"C'mon kid, stay with me, stay with me. Don't quit now, I just got you, c'mon, c'mon!"<p>

* * *

><p>They were shooting at us to try and get us to shut up. Some mutant grade shit that might've put Wolverine down, if I hadn't stuck my damn hand out and literally knocked the dart off course. Except - fuckin', Barton's blood - what tiny nick it scratched onto me was enough to get into my bloodstream, and everything gets a little blurry.<p>

* * *

><p>"Wake up, Jack. C'mon, kid. C'mon, let's see those eyes, huh? C'mon, Hotshot, open up."<p>

"Clint-"

"SHUT THE FUCK UP DON'T TOUCH ME."

* * *

><p>What I do remember is some dick bein' mouthy and puttin' hadns on Roro. And I mighta said somethin' about his dick that made Wolverine laugh and Kurt's blue skin go purple. And that mighta be why he stuck me with a needle and just left me to die.<p>

Said somethin' about it not bein' good for humans, that when they tested it on mutants it had some pretty interesting affects, but humans were screwed. And since he knew I wasn't on their list, he stuck me and dragged my friends away.

Someone kicked me real hard in the guts and then I was alone, as per my norm.

* * *

><p>"You're not alone, kid. I'm here. I'm here, finally, I'm late, I know, but I'm here, okay? Right here. You're not alone, Jack. I'm here."<p>

* * *

><p>I managed to drag my sorry ass across to some computers and jam the StarkTech into the USB port. Because HYDRA can be what they like, they never counted on no two-bit Barton with a busted face and no shirt to have anything worth anything in his pockets, because no one ever does. I fly under the radar all the time. Underestimated and smallish but tricky, like my dad-<p>

* * *

><p>Clint pushed his chest harder. Steve was blowing air into Jack's lungs. Natasha cleared her throat and kept reading.<p>

* * *

><p>Underestimated and smallish but tricky, like my dad, nothing like my ma, my pretty ma with her perfect liar's face and soft hair and edges.<p>

I watched the StarkTech beacon light up, saw Tony Stark's mug pop up on a screen. Didn't have time for him, just watched my friends raise hell on the monitors and figured, well shit. I'm dying, and no one knows. Except Phil. I'm pretty sure Phil knows. And that he's waiting on me to say something. But I can't if I'm dead, and I don't want to just, mention it.

Mention how - even if I did get a busted looking face, and no height, and bad luck? I also got an X gene. Pretty sure it's dad's 'cuz Ma got an autopsy done and nothing said nothing about it on her blood type. And I think, I think I got it, that one tiny mutation, because I didn't feel so good before, like I was dyin', but fuck if I can't feel my heart beatin' louder and louder and my eyesight is off the fuckin' charts, I can literally see everything. I can literally see

* * *

><p>Steve bent to seal his mouth over the kid's, pinching his nose.<p>

The kid pinched his nose back.

"Yeah, how do you like it?" he grumped, and two bright eyes popped open. Captain America took a step back.

Jack coughed, smacked at Hawkeye's hands.

"Shit, quit shoving me, that _hurts_-"

Clint stopped, grabbed fistfulls of his shirt, hauling him up to put arms around him. And for a long second, that was all it was, just Hawkeye holding onto a kid agent he'd thought was dead. But the wasn't just that.

It was everything.

* * *

><p>I can literally see everything.<p>

I can literally see that Roro's gonna lose her shit and electrocute bitches until they let her into my hospital room, so maybe move out of her way, holy shit, that's gross, Roro.

I can see that yeah, I'm unconscious when they find me and I'm in some slick sweaty puddle and I _look_ dead. And Black Widow - hot damn, that catsuit, me-_ow_. She's not even gonna mind, just let it slide, just this once, because all Bartons get precisely one chance to be sexist pigs and I'm not sure I have game enough to do it with my mouth so I'm doing it now.

I can see that they're gonna shoot me up with adrenaline and it's gonna put me in comatose state for a bit.

I can see Stark's gonna look into this, read it, snort, scratch his little beard, goatee thing, tell the screen: "It's not a goatee, it's a chin warmer", blink twice and take a StarkPad to my dad, in my medical bay, where they all think I'm dying, and tell Clint to read it, because it was meant for him.

I can see that Captain America sits around and thinks I'm aces when I talk about Roro and get all heroic and tryn' kiss me back to life, which, like I said earlier, bit of gay never hurt any one, but you're not my type, dude.

I can see that when Clint finally reads this by himself, he's gonna get all misty and emotional, and he's gonna tell me how much he sees himself in me, and I'm just gonna hug him because I'm still pretty crappy with words.

But I might just tell him that, as it turned out, having Barton's blood in me wasn't such a bad thing in the end, anyway.


End file.
